


would you be sorry (if i swore that i'd be there)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 Making Friends and Influencing People, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the worst possible place for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is way shorter than I wanted it to be, because while I know what happens next in this verse, I just couldn't seem to smoothly transition to it. So depending on the reaction this gets, there might be more soon-ish. (Although life has hit hard this week, so soon is a relative term.)
> 
> Also, this is an expansion of an idea I had doing a ten sentence meme, specifically the AU prompt. In order to avoid spoilers, it's in the end note.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Pain sears across Jemma’s left breast as she’s lifting a tray of test tubes, and it’s so unexpected, coming out of nowhere as it does, that the tray slips right out of her hands to shatter on the floor.

She registers that as distantly as she registers the fact that the lab has gone silent around her. All of her attention is on the bone-deep pain that steals the oxygen from her lungs and replaces it with fire. For a long, long moment, she can’t breathe at all, and a tiny, frightened part of her remembers what it felt like to drown.

The rest of her is busy being horrified at the knowledge of what’s happening, because it’s happening in the worst possible place.

All at once, the pain ends. She realizes she’s doubled over and straightens, dragging in a deep breath as she blinks the tears away from her eyes.

“With me, Miss Simmons.”

The unwelcome voice is accompanied by a hand at her elbow, and she’s helpless to do anything but follow Mr. Bakshi out of the lab.

She rubs at her chest as they go, mind racing, caught between utter terror and a bubbly, giddy kind of joy; this is the absolute last place she would have wanted this to happen, but that it’s _finally_ happened after years and years of waiting demands to be celebrated anyway.

“Am I right, Miss Simmons,” Bakshi says as he steers her into a small office, “in assuming you just received your soul mark?”

She wants desperately to lie, to protect this—to protect her soulmate—from HYDRA. In light of the scene she made dropping those test tubes, however, she doesn’t see any possible way to deny the truth.

“You are,” she confirms, pressing her hand to it.

Though the pain has stopped, she can still feel the heat of the mark through her shirt, and despite the circumstances, she can’t help but be encouraged by its close proximity to her heart. Such placement indicates a strong potential for a romantic match with her soulmate, whoever he or she might be, and that’s exactly what she’s always hoped for.

“Congratulations,” Bakshi says with a quick, insincere smile. “HYDRA policy requires your soul mark be kept on file. I’ll document it now.”

She tamps down on the surge of defiance his words spark. This is _her_ soul mark— _her_ soulmate’s name, meant only for _her_ eyes and that of her soulmate him or herself—and every inch of her rebels at the idea of sharing it with anyone else, especially HYDRA.

But HYDRA cares nothing for her feelings, and she trusts her soulmate would rather have her alive than killed for the sake of their privacy.

So she forces a smile and says, “Of course,” before tugging the collar of her (conveniently rather low-necked) shirt down and to the side.

Her whole world narrows to the name on her chest; the pleasant warmth of being newly marked abandons her, chased away by the chill of her blood turning to ice in her veins.

No. No, it _can’t_ be.

“Grant Ward,” Bakshi reads, sounding oddly pleased. “You’re very fortunate, Miss Simmons; he’s one of our best. And I must say, it’s a relief to see he’s still alive—no one’s heard from him in…”

As he trails off, she recognizes the suspicion on his face, and realizes that her own must be broadcasting her horror.

There’s a hysterical running commentary in the back of her mind (soul marks only appear once soulmates are properly compatible with one another; has she been so damaged by her time at HYDRA as to be suited to a murderous traitor like Ward? Yesterday she let Donnie Gill die for the sake of her cover—does that make her like _him_? How many people died for the sake of _his_ cover? This whole time she’s been telling herself that she’s nothing like him, despite the similarities in their assignments, but obviously she’s wrongwrong _wrong_ ) and this is hardly the time for it. So she silences it as best she can, shoving into a tiny box to open and despair over later, when her life is not at risk.

(And wasn’t she _just_ thinking that her soulmate would rather have her alive? Isn’t _that_ a laugh.)

“Is something wrong, Miss Simmons?” Bakshi asks slowly.

“I—” she swallows, searching desperately for an excuse, and tries not to brighten too obviously when she lands on one almost at once. “I know him. We were—before the uprising, we were on a team together.” He knows about the team, of course, having shoved it in her face just yesterday, and she hopes being the one to bring it up this time will earn her back some of the points she lost then. “The thought that all that time, I was working beside my soulmate and didn’t know it…”

With any luck, she manages the wistful tone she’s aiming for—or at least successfully disguises what she’s actually feeling. All of her childhood dreams have shriveled and died at once, and they’ve left a hollow in her chest she suspects will never be filled.

How can this _be_?

“Ah.” He smiles tightly. “Such is fate, Miss Simmons. It’s not uncommon.”

“Yes,” she says, and smiles weakly back at him. “Did you—I’m sorry, did you say he’s one of ours? He’s HYDRA, too?”

“Indeed,” he says. “Unfortunately, we lost contact with him in the chaos of the uprising. Perhaps your mark will serve to draw him out, hm?”

 _That_ is its own terrible thought, because it reminds her that he will have gotten his mark the exact same moment she got hers.

Right now, Ward is at the Playground, safely imprisoned within Vault D and kept under constant surveillance. The next time he takes his shirt off—which he does every morning and night, without fail, while exercising—her name on his chest will be obvious.

All of her team will know that Jemma’s soulmate is a monster.

“We can only hope,” she says, numbly.

She feels strangely distant from the subsequent events. She allows Bakshi to photograph her soul mark, signs the forms he presents—naming Ward her next of kin and giving him power of attorney in case she should ever be incapacitated, amongst other things; the thought of giving him that sort of control over her life is enough to make her shudder, but there’s no easy way to refuse—and practically sleepwalks back to the lab.

Once there, she accepts the congratulations of her colleagues, apologizes to Kenneth for the broken test tubes, and collects her things in a daze. HYDRA is not the most empathetic of organizations, but a state of distraction is to be expected from the newly marked, and so she is allowed two days off in which to regain her mental balance.

Two _years_ would likely not be enough, but she has the sense not to say it.

Somehow, she makes it home in one piece. And only once she’s safely arrived—once the door is locked and the blinds closed and the corners checked for hidden enemies (or soulmates)…

Only then does she allow the tears she’s been fighting back to well over into sobs.

Her dreams have been ground into dust, and she doesn’t even have the luxury of keeping it to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. AU
> 
> Pain blooms strong and unbearable in his chest, interrupting his words about brainwashing, and once he catches his breath, he strips off his shirt to find that the name _Jemma Simmons_ has written itself across his heart; his delighted “Well, what do you know?” is drowned out by the sound of Skye fleeing up the stairs, shouting for Coulson, so there’s no need to hide his smile.


	2. could you forgive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks very much to everyone for all the comments and kudos! Comments really are the best form of motivation, and getting so many kind ones really brightened what was an otherwise awful week. I love you all. <3
> 
> This probably isn't what y'all were expecting from this chapter, but it was unfortunately necessary. I hope it doesn't disappoint!
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

A second ago, Phil was pretty sure he couldn’t possibly feel worse about this.

One look at Simmons’ pale and tearstained face when she opens the door proves him completely wrong.

“Hi, Jemma,” he says gently. She’s staring fixedly at his tie, shoulders tense like she’s bracing for a blow, and it takes everything he’s got to keep his voice light. “Mind if I come in?”

She gives a jerky nod and steps back, keeping a careful distance between them as he enters the apartment. He pretends not to notice the way her hands shake when she locks the door behind him.

There’s a ragged quality to her breathing, though, that he can’t ignore. It tells him she’s not done crying yet, and since it’s been _hours_ since the event he’s positive prompted her tears, he just can’t let that stand.

There’s a conversation in front of them that’s no doubt going to be unpleasant. There are several very important things they need to cover before he leaves—for one thing, it’s written all over her face that she’s waiting for him to condemn her, and _that_ needs to be straightened out immediately—and he really can’t afford to linger long.

But the same helpless fury that propelled him out of the Playground takes over once again, and instead of following when she makes for the living room, he catches her shoulder and pulls her into a hug.

For a long second, she’s stiff—either reluctant to accept comfort or just surprised that he, of all people, is hugging her—and then she melts against him, clinging to his suit jacket like a frightened child.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, and she shakes her head against his shoulder. Well, all right. “It’s gonna _be_ okay. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re gonna be fine.”

Simmons is someone who cries quietly. (Phil wishes he didn’t already know that.) If he were standing two feet away, he’d never know she was weeping. As it is, holding her makes it obvious: her tears are seeping slowly through his shirt, her shoulders hitch on every third inhale, and she’s shaking like a leaf.

He doesn’t need to hear her crying, he can _feel_ it—along with a rising need to punch Grant Ward in his smug, traitorous face.

But this isn’t the time for anger, so he pushes it down and focuses on offering comfort. He murmurs soothing nothings and strokes her hair like she’s the kid that he can’t help he still sees her as—like a hug and maybe an ice cream cone will be enough to fix this.

It won’t. He knows that. She’s a grown woman, not a child, and this is a lot more serious than a skinned knee.

Still, for a minute he lets himself pretend this is something he can fix. It’s an indulgence, but one he can justify; Simmons deserves as much comfort as he can give her.

So he lets her cry herself out and, once she’s done, lets himself fuss a little. He ushers her along to the couch, makes her a cup of tea, and settles next to her while she drinks it, rather than taking a chair, as he usually would.

(He’s been having problems maintaining a professional distance from his kids since SHIELD fell. Skye’s done some grumbling about how he keeps shutting himself away in his office, but honestly, it’s for the best. Staying away is the only way to control the urge to wrap the kids in cotton wool and put them on permanent lockdown—the only foolproof plan for keeping them safe he’s been able to come up with so far.)

As much as he hates it, though, he is on a time limit here. Though he’d like to wait for her to raise the subject, he’s already put it off for as long as he can, and so he jumps right in as soon as she puts her mug down.

“So,” he says. “I’m sure you can guess why I’m here.”

His gut clenches at the way she curls in on herself. He’s careful to keep his worry off of his face…not that it matters, since she’s looking anywhere but at him.

“I can,” she agrees softly, pressing a hand to her heart.

He already knows that’s where her soul mark is—Ward’s is in the same place, of course, and he’s kept it proudly on display, outright refusing to put his shirt back on; when Phil left, Melinda was watching the feed from Vault D with an expression that said she was thinking of going down there to carve the mark right out of Ward’s chest—but the reminder causes a twinge in his own heart, anyway.

In addition to being a genius, Simmons is a kind, terrifyingly brave young woman who has _more_ than earned the fairy tale romance he’s not supposed to know she and Skye have giggled about. She doesn’t deserve—well, she doesn’t deserve _any_ of what’s happened to her in the past year, but especially not this.

“Are you going to pull me out of HYDRA?” she asks.

Phil searches her face warily. He’s certainly _considered_ ending her assignment, but something about her tone makes him think she’s not approaching that option from the same angle he is.

“Why would I do that?” he asks, testing.

“W-Ward is my soulmate,” she says, would-be detached tone ruined by her stutter over the name. “I certainly wouldn’t blame you for finding it difficult to trust me now.”

Yeah. He was afraid of that.

“ _No_ ,” he says, so firmly that she startles a bit. “Your loyalty has never been in doubt, and it never will be.”

“No?” she asks. “Knowing who I’m destined for doesn’t shake your confidence?”

“Not even a little.”

“My soulmate is a _monster_ ,” she emphasizes. “He’s a kidnapper and a murderer and—and something in my soul _complements_ his.” She hugs her knees to her chest, looking painfully young. “Doesn’t that worry you?”

“Not at all,” he says. “I trust you, Simmons, because I _know_ you—a heck of a lot better than some mystical, totally unscientific idea of fate does.”

He’s hoping to make her smile, and for a second, she does. But it fades fast, and she thins her lips—though not quick enough for him to miss the tremble in them.

“Are you so certain?” she asks, plucking at the hem of the pajama pants she’s wearing. “Something’s obviously changed, for the mark to appear now. Somehow, I’ve become compatible with him. Perhaps this undercover assignment has made me…”

She trails off, face set in such miserable lines that Phil has to look away. Guilt squirms uncomfortably through his chest.

What she’s saying is exactly what he’s afraid of. Not that she’s been made _evil_ somehow— _that_ is ridiculous, and he knows better. But he’s worried she’s been hardened—scarred—by the den of snakes he sent her into.

She thought she knew what she was signing up for when she agreed to this. She assured him repeatedly she was prepared to live a life of lies, to face the possibility of her own death, to be on edge for every second of every day…and maybe she was.

But he never warned her about how undercover work can change a person, how the weight of the horrible things she’d be called on to do might settle onto her shoulders and never come off. He’s spent decades sending people on this kind of assignment; he knew the risks. And, more importantly, he chose not to warn her of them.

If anyone’s to blame for this, it’s Phil.

He knows that’s not what she wants to hear.

“Has it occurred to you it might be the other way around?” he suggests instead. “He’s given us a lot of useful intel lately. Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf—or at least started to.”

The look she gives him is so patently disbelieving that he has to smile, despite the circumstances.

“Or not,” he allows, and then sobers. “But I want you to listen to me, okay?” He waits. “Are you listening?”

She nods silently.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he says, slowly and deliberately. She starts to argue, and he continues, louder, “Yes, it’s possible that you and Ward are compatible now because you’ve gone undercover and can relate to him. It’s equally possible that a few months in a cell have been enough to open his eyes to his mistakes, and you’re compatible because you have a capacity for kindness— _forgiveness_ —that most people don’t.”

Simmons opens her mouth and then closes it without speaking.

“It’s _also_ possible that you complement each other in the traditional way,” he continues. “That you have what he lacks. Maybe you’re the…light to his darkness.”

_That_ throws her visibly off-balance.

“Like Audrey and Daniels,” she says softly.

“Exactly,” he says, pleased the example resonated—although, for her sake, he hopes that’s not the kind of situation she’s in. He wouldn’t wish that twisted mockery of a soul bond on _anyone_ , especially not one of his kids. “There are a million possible explanations as to why your soul mark has chosen now to appear, Jemma. And not one of them reflects badly on you. Not. One.”

Simmons’ eyes are glossy with tears, but the smile she gives him is genuine enough.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice a bit hoarse.

“You’re welcome.”

He gives her a minute to collect herself…which is honestly only half generosity. The rest of it is, simply, having no idea how to move the conversation along. He could spend all day trying to convince her of his good opinion, but he knows the damage her soul mark has done to her sense of self won’t be fixed overnight.

(It’s times like these he wishes for the old SHIELD back. Once upon a time, there was a whole department dedicated to helping agents with problem soulmates. Some time with one of those counselors would probably do Simmons a world of good.)

Eventually, she clears her throat, and he reins in his wandering thoughts.

“While we’re on the topic,” she says, hesitantly, “how did Ward—or, or what did he—” She stops and sighs, pressing her forehead to her knees. “I don’t know what I mean to ask.”

Phil breathes in slowly, fighting the urge to reach for her. Every inch of her is screaming the need for distance right now; it would be the height of selfishness to hug her just because _he_ feels the need to offer comfort.

“If you want to know how he reacted,” he says, forcing a bright tone, “he’s taken it very well.”

She peeks out at him suspiciously. “ _Too_ well?”

Honestly…yes.

“He’s…expressed a desire to see you,” he says carefully. “And he seems to have lost interest in Skye.”

Simmons lifts her head to pin him with an unreadable stare.

“Do you mean to say he’s redirected his creepy obsession to me?” she asks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “but yeah. It looks like it.”

She shivers, hugging her knees tighter, and he honestly can’t blame her. Ward’s taken a terrifying turn since the uprising; Skye’s more than once referred to him as the _psycho in the basement_ and, while indelicate, it’s certainly fitting. The earnest yet covetous way he’s looked at and spoken to Skye over the last few weeks would probably have given Phil nightmares, were his subconscious not otherwise occupied.

He’s been hoping more frequent exposure would see Ward’s obsession with Skye lessen. He never dreamed it might shift instead to Simmons.

It’s actually presented a bit of a problem.

“That’s actually one of the reasons I’m here,” Phil says. “Aside from the need to keep Skye and Trip from coming in my place to kidnap you back to the Playground, which they both independently threatened.”

Simmons blinks. “Really?”

“Yep,” he says. “And May didn’t actually _say_ anything, but the look she gave me—!” He fakes a shiver of his own. “If I hadn’t come to check on you, I’d’ve had a mutiny on my hands.” He pauses, considering the state she’s in, and then resignedly admits, “Actually, I still might.”

She smiles, but it’s a nervous one. She’s gone back to fidgeting with the hem of her pajama pants.

“So…the team…?”

“Knows,” he finishes for her. “And wants you back at the base ASAP for, and I quote, _all the hugs_.” He offers her a shrug. “I don’t know exactly how many hugs that comes out to, but it sounds like a lot.”

A real smile flickers across her face, but only for an instant. She worries at her lower lip. “And…Fitz?”

He sighs. It was really too much to hope she wouldn’t ask about her best friend, and yet hope Phil did.

“Fitz,” he says, “thinks we should kill Ward and be done with it.”

Simmons blanches. “He—”

“He had a rough day yesterday,” he offers in Fitz’s defense. “He knows you’re in danger, and he thinks Ward is only going to make it worse. He wants to protect you.”

She looks so shattered, at that, that all Phil can bear to do is move on.

“Which brings me back to Ward,” he says, “and the fact that his demands have changed.”

She puzzles over that, but only for a second. Then she pales even further.

“You mean he’s demanding to speak to me instead of Skye?” she asks.

“He is,” Phil confirms.

“What—” she swallows. “What did you tell him?”

“Nothing, yet.” Before he can think better of it, he reaches out to still her hand, which has moved on to pulling at the loose thread in the seam of the couch cushion. She freezes, but makes no move to pull her hand away, so he leaves his on top of it. “Like I said, it’s part of why I’m here. To decide what to tell him.”

“How so?” she asks, a little tremulously.

“Well, we’ve got a few options,” he says. “Telling him you’re here, undercover in HYDRA, might provoke more intel. Right now, it takes a lot of prodding to get him to offer anything up; if he knows you’re in danger, he might be more forthcoming.”

“That would depend on him actually caring,” she points out.

“It would,” he agrees. “Which is why I didn’t jump right to it.”

“We can’t take it for granted that I matter to him,” she says evenly—too evenly. “What are our other options?”

There’s nothing he can say that won’t sound trite. The fact is, they _can’t_ assume that Ward cares about her. A soul mark indicates a _potential_ connection; it doesn’t guarantee it and it certainly doesn’t force it.

“I could just tell him you’re gone,” he says. “Off to visit your parents, back into civilian life, something like that. He might be satisfied with it, or…”

“He might demand my return,” she completes. “He’s already proven to care little for the personal feelings of his objects of obsession. I doubt he’d be bothered by the prospect of interrupting my life.”

“Probably not,” Phil has to admit. “Which leads to option three: stonewalling him in the hopes he’ll give up and start talking to Skye again.”

Simmons shakes her head. “Even if it was likely to work, Skye doesn’t deserve that. But…” She bites her lip. “I imagine option four is me returning—abandoning my assignment in favor of acting as emissary to Ward.”

“In short, yes.” It’s an option he’s conflicted on, to be honest. He’s seen how talking to Ward has worn down Skye and hated every second of it; he’s not in a hurry to condemn yet another of his kids to that. At the same time, though, he’d welcome the excuse to bring her home, away from HYDRA.

She’s gathering valuable intel for them, intel they _need_. Morse is highly placed, but she has no good reason to go digging around HYDRA’s lab files. Simmons is their only source of scientific intelligence—intelligence that might be the difference between life and death. It’s important and necessary.

That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Simmons inhales slowly. “Any other options?”

“Nope. That’s it.”

“I see,” she says, and goes quiet.

The silence draws out, and Phil—though keenly aware of how long he’s been here, and of the risk his presence poses, should HYDRA happen to drop by—leaves Simmons to her thoughts. At the end of the day, this is her life and her soulmate, and Phil has led her into disaster too many times already.

This, he’ll leave up to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expecting Phil's part to be this LONG (it was just supposed to be a tiny bridge between Jemma and Grant's parts), but he wanted his say, so what can you do?
> 
> Grant's POV--assuming y'all still want it--will hopefully be along soon-ish, RL permitting.


	3. release me from this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! This chapter fought me a LOT; trust Grant to be difficult. Thanks very much for all of the comments and kudos! They definitely help to keep me going! <3
> 
> Please forgive me if updates--both of this fic and of other things--are slow from this point out. I've just started the final semester of my degree and I am already drowning in work, including a degree-wide cumulative exam in two weeks and a presentation (for which the team project report is expected to be ~100 pages) at a conference in April. I'm already thinking of quitting and running away to join the circus; I don't know how much time I'll have for writing.
> 
> For now, here's Grant's POV. Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Imprisonment is boring.

 _Really_ boring.

This isn’t the first time Grant’s been locked up. It’s not even the fifth. Between missions gone wrong, missions that _called_ for him to get caught, and his troubled childhood, he’s seen his fair share of cells.

This one has its upsides—he hasn’t been tortured, so that’s nice, and it’s the cleanest cell he’s been in since juvie—but it’s got plenty of downsides, too. His biggest complaint, of course, is that entertainment’s been sorely lacking since his second suicide attempt saw his books taken away. For months, all he’s had to sustain him is the occasional drop-in from Coulson and, over the last few weeks, a few annoyingly short conversations with Skye. He is getting damn tired of staring at the walls.

Which makes getting his soul mark even better than it’d otherwise be.

It’s not just _finally_ knowing who his soulmate is—Jemma Simmons, and isn’t _that_ a kick—although that’s obviously the best thing about it. He’s been waiting his whole life to find out whose soul is matched to his, and even though the timing (and circumstances) could be better, the _relief_ of it is enough to have him breathing easy for the first time in months.

But that’s not all, because with the soul mark comes the soul bond.

It’s not much of one—not yet. Just a tiny, tiny thread of a connection, fragile and flimsy. It’s so small, so fleeting, that if he weren’t closed away in a cell with nothing else to do—if he had literally anything other than four walls to focus on—he might not notice it at all.

As it is, it holds all of his attention.

It’s unusual for the bond to appear so quickly—traditionally speaking, it doesn’t come into being until well into a relationship—but it makes sense. He knows Jemma and Jemma knows him. He spent months living and working with her, fostering friendship and trust. They were pretty close by the end; the bond’d probably be even stronger if not for all the…unpleasantness the uprising brought about.

That’s okay, though. They’ll have time to build it up.

For the moment, it’s enough to work with. He alternates between focusing on it—soaking in the warmth, the faintest echo of her heartbeat alongside his, and the ghost of what might be her emotions, just barely out of reach—and blocking it in turns.

Not that he _wants_ to block it—after a lifetime of waiting and months of isolation, he hates turning away from the connection to Jemma—but it’s an unfortunate necessity. There was a whole class on it at the Academy, outlining the dangers a soul bond can pose; more than one specialist died in the field after being distracted by a change in the bond during a fight.

Grant’s not gonna be in this cell forever, and once he gets out, he needs to be in a position to protect himself and Jemma from whatever the world’s got to throw at them. That means being able to ignore the bond when he needs to, no matter how much he dislikes it.

And he _does_ dislike it—downright loathes it, in fact—so he probably leans more towards soaking in it than he should.

He’s in the middle of exactly that when his concentration is broken by the _clang_ of the door at the top of the stairs. He opens his eyes with a sigh, but doesn’t bother to stand; there’s only one person he wants to see, and those footsteps are too heavy to be hers.

Sure enough, when the barrier goes transparent, it’s Coulson on the other side.

“Ward,” he says blandly.

Grant can almost _smell_ the irritation hiding behind that blank face, and it’s enough to soothe his own impatience with the interruption. Just to be annoying, he slouches a little further against the wall, unfolding his legs from under him to stretch along the bed.

“Where’s Jemma?” he asks.

Coulson’s jaw ticks, and Grant smiles to himself, pleased. The bond isn’t the only form of entertainment his soul mark created; for another thing, it’s so easy to get a rise out of everyone now. Less than an hour ago, some guy he didn’t even know was down here throwing fits at him about putting his shirt back on.

Apparently the people upstairs don’t enjoy the sight of Grant’s mark as much as he does.

(That’s been entertainment, too: just _looking_ at the mark. Tracing the curve of the _J_ , the little trailing ends of the _m_ s…he never realized, on the Bus, how beautiful her handwriting was. Now it’s permanently imprinted on his body, tangible proof of their connection—and so encouragingly placed.)

“Not here,” Coulson says.

Although Grant makes a show of frowning, he’s not particularly surprised. It took weeks to get Skye down here, and even then, it was only a desperate need for intel that only he could provide that got the job done.

Jemma’s sure to take even longer.

Still, he’ll take every opportunity he gets to push this—after all, he’s not likely to get many.

“Yeah, I can see that,” he says. “But if you want something, you’d better _get_ her here, because I’m only gonna talk to her.”

“Two days ago, you hadn’t even said her name in months,” is Coulson’s mild rejoinder. “Your tune changes fast, Ward.”

“Well, I didn’t know she was my soulmate, did I?” He tips his head back against the wall with a sigh. “I was so _sure_ it was Skye.”

It’s said partly to get under Coulson’s skin, but mostly because it’s true. From the very first moment they met, something about Skye called out to him—and the more he learned about her, the surer he got. They can understand each other in a way no one else on the team can—in a way no one he’s ever _met_ can. It wasn’t just their messed up childhoods and how those childhoods led them to bad choices, it’s where they ended up—the wrong turns that put them on the right path.

He was positive she was his soulmate.

He thought all he had to do was change her a little—get her to see his side of things, to understand why he put his faith in HYDRA—to make her compatible. That’s why he pushed so hard to get her down here; he thought more exposure would bring the soul mark on quicker.

“She and I have so much in common,” he adds, just to see Coulson’s mouth tighten. “I never would’ve thought _Jemma_ …” He smiles. “But then, ‘opposites attract’ is cliché for a reason.”

He’s not unhappy to have been proven wrong about Skye. He’s annoyed that he wasted so much time—that he had his _actual_ soulmate within his reach and let her slip through his fingers—but he’s not unhappy that he and Jemma are meant for one another.

After all, it’s not like he was _unaware_ of her, back on the Bus. He’s got months of memories filed away— another new form of entertainment; those memories are all gonna look a lot different now that he knows it was his _soulmate_ impersonating him and tutting over his carelessness and gloating after beating him at Scrabble—and he was pretty fond of her to begin with.

He knows that she’s adorable and kind and brilliant, that her sense of humor is nicely suited to his, that she’s a good friend and will probably make an excellent soulmate.

He just never would’ve guessed she was _his_.

Coulson is silent—struggling with his temper, if Grant’s any judge. Grant waits him out.

“You misunderstood me,” he says eventually.

“Oh yeah? How’s that?”

“When I said Simmons wasn’t here,” Coulson says, “I wasn’t talking about this basement. I meant she’s not on base.”

Grant sits forward. Coulson _could_ just mean that Jemma’s stepped out, that she’s running errands or having a girls’ day with Skye or whatever, but something about his tone and his too-innocent expression…

“Then where is she?” he asks.

“HYDRA,” Coulson says, and Grant’s heart misses a beat.

 _HYDRA_?

“And what,” he asks, forcing his voice to remain calm, “is she doing _there_?”

He doesn’t dare hope she’s jumped ship (although it would go a long way to explaining why they’re suddenly compatible). Not only is she just about the _least_ suited for it person he’s ever met, there’s no way Coulson would actually _tell_ Grant if Jemma switched sides.

…If she’s been captured and Coulson has been standing here _wasting time_ on _pointless_ banter—

“Rising through the ranks of the science division,” Coulson says, grinding Grant’s thoughts to a halt. “She’s gathered a lot of useful intel.”

It genuinely takes Grant a couple of seconds to recover from that. “She’s _undercover_?”

“Yep.” Coulson’s clearly loving his reaction, and every part of Grant is _screaming_ to rip his stupid, smug face off. If that fucking barrier wasn’t in the way…

How the fuck can Coulson look so _pleased_ when Grant’s soulmate is in _immediate danger_?

“Jemma _can’t lie_ ,” he points out, throat tight with something like terror.

He laughed, last year, over the stories of how she panicked and shot Sitwell, but that was back when HYDRA was in the shadows—when the worst her blunder could get her was a disciplinary hearing, and even _that_ was unlikely for one of SHIELD’s favored scientists.

If she breaks cover at HYDRA, she’ll get a hell of a lot worse than a court martial.

“She’s been doing fine so far,” Coulson says, apparently unconcerned. It’s fucking unbelievable; he spent weeks refusing to send Skye down here for a conversation, but doesn’t blink over throwing Jemma to the fucking wolves? “But you can help her do better.”

“How?” he grits out. If Coulson is honestly using this threat to Jemma’s life to make Grant more cooperative…

Sure enough, Coulson’s answer is, “Intel. Details about HYDRA’s inner workings—things that’ll help her get ahead, the kind of company culture stuff that isn’t in the employee handbook.” He spreads his hands. “You get the idea.”

Grant takes a minute to breathe through his anger. He needs to keep his temper. There’s nothing he can do from inside this cell, and giving in to his impotent fury will only make it worse.

“Or,” he says, once he’s sure he can speak without shouting, “you could pull her out.”

“Afraid not.” Coulson clicks his tongue. “She’s already indicated that she intends to remain undercover for as long as possible."

Grant pushes to his feet, unable to sit still any longer. Not that there’s anywhere to _go_ , but—

That’s a thought.

“Then let me out of here,” he says. “Send me in with her.”

Coulson actually laughs. “That’s _not_ gonna happen.”

“Jemma doesn’t need tips about HYDRA’s inner workings,” Grant insists. “She needs _protection_ , someone that’ll have her back if things go sideways. And if you want her to get ahead, my attention’ll get her a lot further than she can get on her own.”

“Absolutely not,” Coulson says. “There’s no way I could trust you not to just disappear—or, worse, expose Simmons as a mole and turn her over for brainwashing.”

Just the _suggestion_ —the thought of Jemma being broken and remade, her personality erased and replaced—the idea of handing her over to be _violated_ like that—is enough to sicken him. He works past it by tugging on the bond, letting the warmth of it spread through him, loosening some of the knots in his stomach as it goes.

“You think I could do that to my own soulmate?” he demands. The bond might’ve settled his stomach some, but it’s done nothing for his anger, and this time, he doesn’t bother to keep it out of his voice.

He’s got a lot of crimes to his name, most of which he doesn’t regret, but he could never, _ever_ subject Jemma to that.

Coulson doesn’t look impressed. “I think you just told me you thought Skye was your soulmate, and you _kidnapped_ her. I’m not putting you in a position to do the same—or worse—to Simmons. Ever.”

The stress on ‘ever’ freezes Grant’s anger into something colder. He knows he’s ruined his remorse play—he hasn’t even _thought_ about it since he got his mark; he sure as hell hasn’t been acting in line with it—but he refuses to spend the rest of his life in this cell. And, more importantly…

“You are _not_ gonna keep me from my soulmate,” he warns.

He’s been waiting too long for this—for _her_. He’s not letting anything or anyone stand in his way.

He has other plans for getting out of here. He went with remorse because it was the one that would cause the least damage, both in terms of a body count and to his relationship with his team (and, honestly, the idea of them just dropping the barrier and letting him walk out appealed to his ego), but it’s not his only play.

If his only other option is never seeing Jemma? He’ll do anything, up to and including wiping this base off the map.

“Yes, I am,” Coulson says, shoulders tensed by Grant’s tone. “The only way you’re helping her is from inside this cell. If you really wanna protect her, then stop playing games and just tell us what we need to know.”

It sounds to Grant like the best way to protect Jemma is to get her the hell away from these people—SHIELD and HYDRA both. HYDRA’ll kill her if she’s caught, and while he can at least trust SHIELD not to outright execute her, the fact that Coulson is callous enough to send her _into_ HYDRA, to let her risk her life on an op she has no training for—

Wait.

“How do I know you’re not lying?” he asks. “That this isn’t some bullshit story you cooked up to mess with me?”

He was so thrown by the idea of Jemma undercover that he jumped straight to damage control, but now that he thinks about it, it’s a hell of a stretch. Which is more likely: Coulson sending Jemma into HYDRA, or Coulson lying about Jemma undercover as a way of gaining Grant’s cooperation?

Honestly, he’s more than a little embarrassed it took this long to occur to him.

Coulson just smiles and pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket.

“I wondered when you’d get around to asking,” he says, smugly, as he taps at the screen for a second.

“HYDRA’s Gifted program still advancing,” Jemma’s voice reports, and Grant’s mouth goes dry. Even odds whether it’s down to her voice (it’s been too damn long since he heard it) or her words. “Test bank has increased. Suspect direct action being taken to procure subjects. Rumors refer to unknown designation RS1.”

For fuck’s sake.

“Tell me you don’t have her leaving you _voicemails_.”

It’s not _the_ biggest issue at hand, but it’s way up there.

“I don’t,” Coulson promises, still smiling. “We’re using flex screen recordings and dead drops. I just thought hearing it would be more convincing than seeing it.”

Well, that explains the choppy sentences, at least; flex screens have limited storage. Things like grammar have to be put aside if a mole wants to get all the important intel across.

…Fuck. Jemma’s really undercover in HYDRA. His soulmate—his incapable of lying, failed her field assessment, probably doesn’t have what it takes to kill someone even in self-defense soulmate—is spying on one of the most ruthless organizations Grant’s ever encountered.

“Fuck,” he says, and drops down to sit heavily on his bed. “What the fuck were you _thinking_?”

“I was thinking I needed intel,” Coulson says, finally losing the smile. “And after having to save your _life_ three times, Simmons was in need of space.”

Grant’s gaze falls to the scars on his wrists. It’s not that he didn’t _know_ they were Jemma’s handiwork—her stitches are unmistakable, and it’s not like there were many other options—but now that it’s been actually confirmed…

He touches the scar on his right wrist, wondering what knowing he’s her soulmate has done to her perspective of his suicide attempts. Or, hell, what it’s done to her opinion of _him_.

He remembers the last time he saw her, the terror on her face when he detached the storage pod from its bearings, and feels weirdly hollow.

“What’s RS1?” Coulson asks.

“You get Jemma here, I’ll tell her,” Grant says half-heartedly. His mind is still on that day in Cuba—the cold disdain she aimed at him while Fitz tried to appeal to his better nature.

“That’s not gonna happen,” Coulson says. “What _is_ gonna happen is this: I’m gonna tell her to look into RS1, because if it has anything to do with HYDRA getting its hands on more Gifteds, I need to know about it. She’s gonna go digging. She might get caught.”

Grant fists his hands on his knees. The memory that hits him is so vivid he can almost _hear_ her voice in his ears, the too-hearty and not at all convincing, _“Should be proper now,”_ he let slide.

It’s all too easy to imagine Jemma getting caught snooping where she shouldn’t, then utterly failing to lie her way out of it.

And it’s even easier to picture what HYDRA might do to her for it.

“For as long as she’s undercover, Simmons is gonna be at risk,” Coulson continues. “But you can help me reduce that risk. Do you really want her to put her life in danger going after intel you already have?”

He holds his breath for a five-count, trying to reach along the bond to her, but it’s too thin. They don’t have a proper connection—a connection he can really lean on—not yet. He can feel the warmth and imagine her heartbeat, but a true bond takes time…and proximity.

He needs to get her out of HYDRA, but before he can do that, he needs to get himself out of this cell. And while he’s confident in his ability to manage it, switching plays this late in the game means it’s gonna take time.

Time that Jemma’s gonna be passing by endangering herself.

He sighs. “RS1 stands for Retrieval Strike 1. It’s one of three dedicated strike teams HYDRA maintains for high-value target retrieval.”

“I see.” Coulson sits himself in the chair on the other side of the barrier, eyes intent on Grant. “Go on.”

Grant goes on. He tells Coulson everything he knows about the RS teams, then answers half a dozen questions about HYDRA’s Gifted program and the players involved in it. Then come the questions about brainwashing Skye didn’t get to finish asking when his soul mark’s arrival interrupted the conversation. Then about the Heads, the different branches, and so on. He answers every single question honestly and completely.

Jemma’s life is in danger, so Grant will play along…for now.

Once he gets out of this cell, though, there’s going to be a reckoning.

He doesn’t appreciate having his Jemma held hostage for information, and he’s already planning on how to express that to Coulson—at length.


	4. you already know the deal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, can you believe I'm actually updating this? Nope, me neither. I'm so sorry it's taken this long, guys--writing is just...really hard these days. I hope to get the next chapter out soon-ish, but can make exactly zero promises.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

“Simmons!”

Startled in the act of gathering her things, Jemma fumbles and nearly drops her handbag. After saving it, she turns with dread to find Morse—the newly appointed Chief of Security—bearing down on her.

This can’t possibly be good.

“Yes?” she asks, attempting to sound cheerful and casual and not at all like a spy in fear for her life.

“With me,” Morse barks.

“Oh, but I—I’m just getting ready for lunch,” Jemma says—a bit dumbly, perhaps, but it’s all she can think of that isn’t _oh, god, I’m about to be tortured and brainwashed and it’s going to_ hurt _and the others will think I’ve betrayed them and—_

“Lunch can wait,” Morse says, catching Jemma’s arm to pull her along. Her grip is surprisingly gentle, but no less secure for it, and Jemma has no choice but to hurry and keep up.

“Where are we going?” she asks. She doesn’t quite manage to keep her terror from her voice, but that’s all right; being accosted by the Chief of Security would frighten even the most loyal HYDRA agent, she should think.

Morse’s mouth tightens. She picks up the pace and doesn’t answer.

“Okay, then,” Jemma says to herself.

To her relief, once they reach the stairwell—and why the stairs? Why not the lift?—they head down instead of up. Everyone knows the brainwashing happens on the top floor, so at least she’s to be spared that. It still leaves a number of painful and petrifying possibilities, but whatever else happens, it’s good to know she’ll be keeping her free will.

She realizes she’s rubbing at her soulmark and lets her hand drop, fighting a wave of something that can’t quite be termed annoyance. Her mark is warm, skin almost buzzing beneath it, and she has the terrible thought that—in her fear—she might have been trying to reach across the non-existent soulbond.

But no. That’s absurd, of course. As if she—as if _anyone_ —would turn to _Ward_ in a moment of fear.

It’s just her heart, that’s all. It’s rabbiting away in her chest, pounding with the urge to flee. She’s just getting confused by her soulmark’s proximity to it. That’s it.

“Have I done something wrong?” she asks Morse.

She asks more to distract herself than in hopes of getting an answer—which is good, as she doesn’t. Morse is visibly tense; she’s released Jemma’s arm, likely to reduce the risk of causing an accident on the stairs, but she never moves far out of reach. With her longer legs, she could be taking the stairs much more quickly than she is.

Instead, she keeps pace with Jemma, even as she’s near vibrating with impatience. She also, Jemma notes, occasionally darts glances the way they came, hand straying to the holster at her hip.

Maybe it’s _Morse_ who’s done something wrong. But if so, why would she bring Jemma into it?

For security reasons (and because HYDRA hardly care about their employees’ ability to evacuate in case of an emergency) this particular stairwell only goes down to the tenth floor—something Morse either didn’t know or forgot, judging by the way she curses mightily when they reach the final landing.

“ _What_ is going on?” Jemma demands, exasperation briefly overcoming her fear.

Once again, she’s ignored; Morse seizes her arm and drags her through the door, heading—Jemma presumes—for the stairwell in the west corner, which will take them to the ground floor.

They never make it.

“Ah, Miss Morse!”

Bakshi’s voice stops them outside one of the medical exam rooms, still several corridors away from the stairwell. Morse’s hand spasms once around Jemma’s arm, then falls away, and she turns with a smile. Still reeling with confusion and fear, it takes Jemma a moment to follow suit.

“Forward-thinking, as always,” Bakshi is saying as she does. What might follow those words, she can’t hear past the sudden roaring in her ears. The floor wavers beneath her feet as her heart trembles in her chest, and she struggles to draw in breath, because _Grant Ward_ is stepping out of the room behind Bakshi.

Oh _no_.

“Jemma,” Ward breathes, and then he’s catching her up in a hug. Shock stills her—which is fortunate, else she might have pushed him away before reason took over impulse.

He’s HYDRA and _so is she_ , as far as Bakshi and Morse are concerned. They don’t and _cannot be allowed to_ know that she wants nothing to do with Ward or that she’s cried herself to sleep every night since she got her soulmark. To them, this must appear a joyous reunion, a meeting of soulmates who have been separated for months—who didn’t know what they were to each other when last they were together.

Still, it takes her a moment to return the embrace. Her arms are heavy with shock or reluctance or both; it takes a gargantuan effort to lift them.

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, pairing the words with a kiss to her hair. Remembering what Coulson said—or rather _didn’t_ say—about his obsession with Skye transferring to her, she suppresses a shiver. “With the uprising, I was worried…but it’s good you ended up on the right side.”

She’s distantly grateful for the strength of his arms as weakness overtakes her at his words. It’s sinking in, slowly, how awful a position she’s in. Ward is a loyal HYDRA agent who swore allegiance long before the uprising, whereas Jemma is a recent convert who has already been looked at with suspicion once.

The slightest hint from him could see her dead or brainwashed; HYDRA likely wouldn’t even hesitate long enough to ask if he were sure.

More importantly—and oh, the constant fear has dulled her brain, it’s the only explanation for how _long_ it’s taken her to wonder— _how is he here_?  As of her last contact with Coulson, Ward was safely locked away in Vault D with no hope of escape. Yet escape he must have; there’s no way the team would have let him out, _especially_ not without warning her.

How did he get out? And what harm did he do to her team in the process?

As she fights back the urge to demand answers here and now—she can’t let the worry that’s seized her make her incautious—she realizes that the conversation has continued around her. Things seem, troublingly, to be wrapping up.

“You can find your way to your assigned quarters, I trust?” Bakshi is asking.

“Yeah,” Ward says, a smile in his voice. “We’ll be just fine.”

“Good. Miss Simmons, in light of the circumstances, I’ll allow you the rest of the week off.”

Uncertain of her ability to control her expression, Jemma keeps her face hidden in Ward’s chest as she says, “Thank you.”

Ward’s heart is racing beneath her ear, but the hand he runs up her back is slow and steady. She squeezes her eyes shut against the burning in them.

This is her soulmate. A murderer, a traitor, a man who can return to HYDRA after months away and be welcomed with relief instead of suspicion. He’s also the man that colluded with Centipede, kidnapped Skye, and nearly killed Fitz—to say nothing of Jemma herself.

His hand settles at the base of her neck, and the warmth it sends through her chills her to the bone.

“They’re gone,” he murmurs. This time, his kiss hits her temple. “You gonna make a scene if I let you go?”

Ward’s tone is light—light enough that any nosy security guards monitoring the feeds could easily mistake it for teasing. Without context, one could assume he’s asking if she’s going to cry over their unexpected reunion.

With context, it sounds like a warning.

“That depends,” she says, and though she’s trembling from head to toe, her voice is even.

“On what?”

Jemma forces herself to lift her head and meet his eyes. It’s not easy, not at all—there’s something petrifying in them, a certain hunger that doesn’t belong there. Not for her.

He’s looking at her the same way he used to look at Skye. The urge to flee hammers at her.

But thoughts of her friends—of the question she doesn’t dare ask, not here in full view of HYDRA’s cameras—give her the strength to hold Ward’s gaze. She hits him with her best disdainful look, letting the expression answer his question for her. He knows _precisely_ what her reaction depends upon.

If he’s hurt her team, she’ll do much more than just make a scene. He may have significant strength, height, and training on her, but she has months of pent up emotion—and, she should think, the element of surprise—on her side. He won’t be expecting an attack, not from her.

He smiles. “No. There’s no need for a scene.” He steps away from her, but allows no real distance, instead tucking her into his side as he turns towards the lifts. “But just in case, we should probably finish this conversation in private.”

What does that mean? Did he hurt the team or not?

“I have a flat,” she says, and hates the tremor in her voice. Fear flutters at her lungs, trying to steal her breath. Memories of Skye crying in her arms, infuriated and terrified in equal measure by Ward’s obsession, creep along the edges of her thoughts, just waiting to overwhelm her. “It’s not far—and it will be much more private than anything here.”

“Nah,” Ward says, hitting the button for the lift. “My quarters are just upstairs, and I think sacrificing a little bit of privacy is worth the convenience.”

Jemma wants very badly to argue, though she doesn’t quite dare.

True privacy would’ve meant answers, a chance (albeit a small one) of getting the _truth_ from him, without needing to worry about the ears that listen from every wall and corner in HYDRA. His quarters will be under surveillance; even if they’re not being actively monitored, they’re being _recorded_ , and that means Jemma can’t afford to have him reference her connections to the team. She can’t risk Bakshi—or Morse, whatever her problem is—getting curious and taking a peek at their reunion.

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I can’t convince you otherwise?”

His arm tightens around her shoulders. “I’m positive.”

And of course, there’s the other thing.

Whether or not Ward did them serious damage in the course of his escape, there’s no way the team doesn’t know he’s gone. That they also know he’s her soulmate means they’ll have an extraction team on their way to her as soon as possible. The team can _rescue_ her from her flat.

But from the heart of HYDRA?

As long as she’s in the building, she’s stuck, very much in danger—and not just of brainwashing. Ward’s a specialist who’s been loyal for years, while she’s a lab tech who switched sides months after the uprising. There’s no question which of them HYDRA values more.

With a ding, the lift opens, and Ward steers her into it. As the doors close them in, she has the absurd thought she’s left a few of her internal organs outside; she’s feeling awfully hollow.

“Trust me,” Ward says, voice soft and frighteningly fond. “This is the best place for us.”

The best place for _him_ , he means. If he hurts her…no one here would care to stop it.

Every bit of her soul rails against the thought. He’s her _soulmate_ ; it’s not natural that she should be afraid of him, should desire back-up for a simple conversation.

But she is and she does. Her soul will just have to learn to live with it.

After all, the rest of her has.


End file.
